


To Have, To Hold

by pendragonfics



Series: - ̗  Bruce Banner Bingo 2019  ̖- [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Protective Bruce Banner, Whump, gender neutral reader, no pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: Coming home after a rough day, Bruce consoles his life partner after everything that happened to them.PROMPT:soft kisses
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Reader, Bruce Banner/You
Series: - ̗  Bruce Banner Bingo 2019  ̖- [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1413607
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	To Have, To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> based on real events. although, I didn't have a Bruce after all the stuff I went through. pour one out, y'all

By the time you make it home, you’ve at least somewhat thawed. But in your heart, there isn’t anything that can heal the harshness of the icicles that have attached themselves to your person. As soon as your key slides out of the door, and you enter the foyer, you’re blessed with the thermostat, left at a decent temperature. You shuck off the snow first, and then the boots, and your coat. The floor is full of the shards that have clung to you and trying to step around it all in your socks is just as hard as being on a recon mission with your husband’s hero team.

You feel the _squelch_ both through your sock, and in your soul, and if it weren’t for the fact you were dehydrated, you’d cry on the spot. It’s cold, and you squeak your way into the house, feeling an unparalleled miserableness settling down into the core of your stomach.

As you make your way into the living area, you notice that Bruce isn’t in his usual seat by the fire. It’s grown low, the embers looking worse for wear as the flames grow low around the ashes of a log. Leaving your bags on the floor - and even though there’s no under-floor heating - you take your socks off as you walk to the fireplace. It’s awkward, and the first comes off with no problem, but the second has you -

 _Now_ you cry.

You’re glad you didn’t hit your head on the way down, that’s for sure - but you did land on your arm, and it hurts like hell. There must have been a bit of noise accompanying the fall, because you hear Bruce’s footsteps upstairs, and soon, your husband’s socks are in front of your face.

“_________? Are you okay?” he asks.

You roll onto your back, cradling your arm. “Do I look okay?” you reply, looking up at him.

Upside down, he’s still as gorgeous as he always is. His sweater is one that Wanda knitted herself one Christmas with purple and green wool and those new slacks. But his hair, oh, even from this angle, his mussed curls look just as good as they did the first time you met him in the lab when you were in grad school.

If it wasn’t for the throbbing in your arm, you’re sure that this would end another way.

“You look dazed, tired, sore, and by the way you’re holding that arm, perhaps sprained.” He diagnoses. Bruce bends so he’s on his haunches, knees bent and low, close to your face.

“You’re not even that kind of doctor,” you grumble, trying to push yourself off the floor with your good-not-hurting-arm. After a second, you get momentum, and Bruce helps you stand. Once you’re back on your feet, you kick off the offending sock and peck your helpful husband on the cheek. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey yourself,” he mumbles, the words not coming naturally to himself.

When you don’t reply, Bruce adds, a little absentminded, “It’s snowing a storm out there - did you only just get in?” he turns to the bags you left behind the couch and takes them to the kitchen counter.

You follow like a wounded puppy. While he places the groceries on the bench, stores the bag and flicks the kettle on for a hot drink, you make your way to wheat pillow stashed below the microwave. Punching the right numbers, you watch as the sack spins behind the Perspex door, holding your sore arm.

“Yeah,” you reply, a little too late. “…it’s been a long day.”

“I thought you were just going to the store?” he asks.

You huff, only to be interrupted by the electric beeping of a fully heated wheat pillow. As you position it on your wrist, you lean against Bruce. He’s not one for prolonged physical activity and drills like a smattering of the other combatant Avengers, under Bruce’s skin is the hint of strength. Sure, in his DNA is the Hulk, a creature you are as married to as Bruce, but Bruce isn’t built like a G.I. Joe-Ken doll hybrid. No. You curl against his neck, propping your aching arm against his chest, soft, inviting. You’re not sure if it’s his heartbeat you can feel or just a subdued throbbing of pain.

“I was,” you say softly, into his neck. “I got lost.”

“What happened?” Bruce asks, moving a little.

Now your face fits perfectly into the nook, and you snuggle in, shifting so you’re comfortable. With his spare arm, he holds you close, and if you weren’t already married to the man, you’d do it all over again (because it’s been that long of a day).

“What happened?” you repeat with a half-hearted chuckle. “Well, I got on the wrong bus. I ended up in this weird end of town, and there wasn’t anyone who knew how to get to where I needed to go, and I tried to catch a taxi, but it was going to be fifty bucks for that _without even sitting in the damn cab_!” you weep, pressing further into Bruce.

“Geeze,” he murmurs. “Rough.”

“And I managed to catch a bus halfway to where I needed to be, but then the next one wasn’t for an hour and a half and the snow wasn’t letting up, so I paid, like twenty dollars at a fancy restaurant next to the bus stop and sat there for the two hours until the next bus.”

“What did you order?”

“I don’t know,” you exclaim, but it comes out soft, like a whimper, “I thought it was pasta, but it ended up being an octopus dish? At least the soda was okay.”

“But you caught the bus.” He prompts.

“Yeah,” you nod, “I got to the store okay! I remembered to get the hand soap you wanted, and I found some things I can make for gifts this year. I don’t like commercialised holidays, and we know our friends prefer something handmade,” with your good arm, you place a hand against Bruce’s side, feeling the soft knitted jumper. “anyways, I found some other things and a nice ornament for the mantle for the holidays. But I lost track of time, and I rushed out to the bus stop -,”

“Wait, was this around two? Three o’clock?” He asks.

You nod glumly. “Yes.”

“That’s when the blizzard set in!” he exclaims. “Oh, _________,” he places a soft kiss upon your face, and another, and another, and little by little, they help. “Why didn’t you call? I could have -,”

“We don’t have a car,” you remind him softly. “We’re _eco-friendly_.”

“Ah, yes,” Bruce blinks, remembering the conversation you both had about eight months ago, to lessen your environmental impact. “…screw it. Let’s get a hybrid, or, something that has at least a small carbon footprint.” He kisses you once more, this time, he lingers close to your face, “I don’t want this sort of thing to happen again.”

“Damn straight,” you agree. “…but my day doesn’t end at the bus stop, honey.”

Bruce blinks once more. “Don’t say -,”

“It was late.” You reply.

“Damn the bus,” he curses, albeit, softly.

“Damn the bus,” you agree, “- because it ended up being _twenty_ minutes late! I stood outside in the snowstorm like an idiot, because there isn’t a shelter, and I didn’t want to miss the bus because I could hardly see my hand in front of my face, let alone the _bus_.” You snuffle, leaning further into Bruce’s side. With your face pressed against his form, your words are hardly heard, “and wasn’t it a _great_ day to forget my gloves?”

“Oh, _________.”

Even though you’re already embracing one another, he holds you tighter. You can almost feel Hulk in the hug, with the power that holds you, and if he appears, you’d gladly give him a hug too. It would just be you, and your boys. But no, it’s just Bruce and you in the kitchen, holding one another like you’re on the cover of a romance film on VCR. Your arm isn’t hurting so much, and the warmth has gotten into your body once again, and now the bad day has gone from horrible to bearable.

“Thanks for the hug,” you say, after a while, breaking away. “Leftovers for dinner?”

“I’ll plate up if you find something on Netflix.”

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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